


one forty-seven in the morning.

by Sartorially



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Daydreaming, Flirting, Heist (mentioned), Homestuck Polyswap 2020, Intermission, Intermission (Homestuck), M/M, Multi, Pining, The Felt (Homestuck) - Freeform, Wordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24713704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorially/pseuds/Sartorially
Summary: It's a long walk through Felt Manor but a little conversation is sure to pass the time.Or: Clover has eyes bigger than his stomach.
Relationships: Clover/Crowbar (Homestuck), Clover/Crowbar/Quarters (Homestuck), Clover/Itchy (Homestuck), Clover/Quarters (Homestuck)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18
Collections: Homestuck Polyswap 2020 - Prospit





	one forty-seven in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinisterhand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinisterhand/gifts).



> _Remember "The Inaugural Death of Mister Seven" from Paradox Space?_
> 
> You have no idea.

Being gathered together for a hush-hush heist isn’t unusual. If anything, it’s the most typical part of a Felt member’s day. (Or, night in this case.) Despite that, some are more spry about it than others; Clover leapt out of bed with the slightest introduction of crowbar to shoulder, taking to his round-up orders eagerly. His result is a trio of leprechauns (himself included) in varying states of proper dress staggering through the wide central hall of the Manor with a vague garage trajectory.

Clover leads the charge, with the faithful Fourteen at his back and One at _his_ left. Not the most efficient formation, but certainly better than wandering along like ducklings in a belated game of _follow the leader_. He’s always in danger of near-trampling then, luck be damned.

Itchy, to no one’s surprise, looks like he slept in his suit and has every intention of sleeping in it again once his head hits the polished leather interior of _whatever_ car Crowbar insists on. His unlaced shoes click against tile and scuff over carpets or rugs indiscriminately, mouth open in a prolonged yawn. He seems content with the motion when his jaw cracks, lips smacking, eyes half-closed.

He moves steadily despite his disheveled appearance, though whether that’s from facetious laziness or habitualized competency is anyone’s guess. After several toe-first steps into a rug fraught with the wrinkles of time, he swoons into Quarters’ bicep. The action is rewarded with a flex that knocks him into a table that— _crash!_ —used to hold a vase. Electing to ignore it, he yawns again with his fist nearly shoved into his mouth. If pressed, he’d insist that it’s for comedic effect.

But with even _that_ failing to illicit any kind of response from this three’s worth of crowd, he’s forced to more desperate measures. Namely, speaking. Heavy is the crown born by the local antagonist.

“If I had a word to describe Seven, it’d be pain-in-the-ass.” He’s met with a side-eye from Fourteen, and a _nearly_ clueless stare from Four. It’s a tough crowd. They probably stay up nights tap-dancing to the thought of Crowbar’s trim hips swaying off-beat. (Couldn’t be him, not when he has the wherewithal to imagine Seven attempting a tango and falling flat on his ass.) “Can’t kick us awake at a more reasonable time? Like one?”

“It _is_ one!” Clover cheerfully reminds him, the soft texture of his cheeks all the more pillowy with his grin.

Annoyance settles in, something Itchy’s not typically on the receiving end of. But when Four’s around, as much as it pains him to admit it, it’s a new norm. Still not going to dignify that response with a glance at the literal dozens of clocks he can make out in his peripheral. “ _In the afternoon_ , Four, when all the banks are _open_.”

“It’s _Midnight City_ , isn’t it?”

This is going nowhere fast, which is _typically_ his specialty, but again. Receiving end. New. His teeth bare in a vaguely malicious smile, he has a zinger that’ll put this pipsqueak to shame, no matter how light he is on his toes. Before Itchy can even get a breath in— one hell of a feat —the low rumble of the Felt’s resident gunhand is to be reckoned with.

“S’ four words.”

Itchy squints up at the towering lug. Shit at cards, shit at communication, great with a pistol. That’s the price he pays. “What?”

“Pain in the ass. That’s four words, solid.”

“ _What_ — Don’t make this about weight class, Quarters. It’s _hyphenated_. Pain-in-the-ass. Hear that? Lead-for-brains.”

“I heard your slurring loud and clear.”

Clover looks on, amused by the way Itchy’s cheeks are flushing crimson through his felted skin. He looks like a holiday ornament, and would hate to hear it. He wisely keeps to himself, because luck doesn’t protect him from drubbing or well-placed punts. He admires the bantering pair, easily sidestepping uneven tiles or raised thresholds out of muscle memory and good fortune both, undoubtedly looking about as charm-struck as he feels. What a set of specimens, if he does say so himself.

“Well, _fine!_ Let’s hear you pick a word for him, brawn. Go on, pick a card, any suit.” A bony hand meets Quarters’ shoulder, knuckles lashing out in a blur. As always, the stripe hat shrugs it off with a mildly perturbed expression. “Insufferable. Pedantic.”

A snort, more of an exhale than anything else. “Describing yourself now?”

Itchy fumes at the jab, fists clenched in front of his thighs. But Fourteen continues, eyes front, unhurried but definitely not lollygagging. Clover considers clambering up his side to perch on one overly broad shoulder, just for ease. They’re not exactly in danger of low-hanging door jambs within Felt Manor. It’d also be hilarious to force One into jogging to keep up, lest he get a drubbing for his holdup. 

“Seven’s responsible.” His serrated jaw lists to the left, tongue clearly rolling in thought. “Diligent. Task-oriented.”

“That’s _two_ words, stripe.”

Quarters meets that smug jab with a nonplussed stare, carved from disenchanted stone. What a hunk. “S’ hyphenated, One. Thought you knew how to count.”

The slimmest of their party blurs in his irritation, several vases back the way they’ve come shattering by the time he returns to a more present position, arms crossed. Even his split-second vandalism doesn’t seem to be lifting his spirits. Clover almost feels bad. ( _Almost._ ) Then, Itchy’s ire turns on him and he plasters a wholly innocent smile over his intense stares of devious observation.

“ _Four_. You describe him. _One word_ , per gunlicker’s rules.”

He eyes the finger jabbing out at him, one large eye squinting in thought with the demand. Clover turns himself around completely, still leading the charge with a backwards trot that sets a leisurely pace between the three of them. Thumb stroking his soft jaw, he _mulls_ over this one, as if he hasn’t been flipping through his own myriad of thinly veiled compliments— Quarters’ stoic “appreciation” for Mister Seven doesn’t fool _him_. —since this whole charade started.

“A word to describe Seven? Dependable!” Or _strong_ , or _capable_ , or _resilient_ , or _charismatic_ , or _reasonable_ , or _sharp_ , or _clever_ , or… He’s getting ahead of himself. But can he be blamed for that? He can probably name at least seven times, just off the top of his head, Crowbar’s pulled a success out of a no-win situation with his wits and his knowledge and his intuition and his smarts and his… Oops.

Maybe falling asleep to carapacian showtunes and being shaken out of a lovely dream starring Mister Seven putting his sure feet to work on a swing set wasn’t the best idea, but he’d cut a lovely figure on the dancefloor if he ever gave Clover a chance. (Or maybe he’s more interested in stripes? He’s content to watch, of course. He’s seen Stitch and Crowbar together more often than he’s seen them apart, and he’s not even the jealous type!)

((Well, mostly not. He reserves Crowbar’s moons, even if no one is calling dibs. Yet! They probably don’t realize just how spry a jig their boss is capable of, but Four knows his anatomy well, and there’s yet to be a leprechaun hatched that he can’t pin a toe-tapping strength to.))

…Maybe he should speak up again, because he’s been concentrating long enough that even Quarters looks concerned. He beams, shaking his other finger as if he’s just settled on his latest descriptor, “Or: handsome!”

“What? Seven? _Handsome?_ You’re out of your skull, Four, you’re just out.”

“Broad shoulders, trim waist, and you’ve seen him duck Droog’s shots. Take away the immediate danger of stomach lead and add a band. He’d be the fleetest feet on the marble!”

He can see Fourteen’s jaw working again, this time chewing his tongue to stay his own admissions or thoughts. Poor guy’s a lesson in repression, but Clover’s helped him out of that stiff suit often enough to know he’s soft on Seven. Must be a divisible thing. (Twice as big, twice as endeared?)

“Well.” It never takes much to turn One’s mind on anything, especially when it comes to Seven. For or against, rain or shine, he’s probably just as loyal as Clover when he wants to be. “I guess I’ve just never seen him loosen up enough to figure. What, you think he even charms?”

“Can’t say I haven’t figured you two for stars! Especially with a little side-show on my part; I’m a _whizz_ with stars. Maybe balloons, or—”

“Balloons! You hear this, Fourteen?” An elbow catches him in the ribs, prompting a beleaguered sigh. If ever there was a man deadset on getting the job done with as few words expended as possible, he’s here and in the fuzzy green flesh. “You’re a specially slow shot if you think Seven goes for _balloons_ with anyone. Come on. Talk about a maroon.”

In the split second before inhale and retort, the lucky sprite feels his back connect with legs. Hips, more accurately. Tipping his head back, scooting his fashionable purple hat forward on his noggin, Four makes eye-to-chin contact with the man of the hour himself. (Not Itchy, that is, lest we get confused.)

Crowbar looks as handsome as ever, which is to say he looks like he’s never slept a day in his life and the coffee drip he sustains on is starting to chip away at his thin veneer of patience. One hand settles at his waist. The other loosely holds his crowbar, with the mean end angled ever so slightly towards his pack of idiots. (If asked, he’d say both ends are the mean end. Clever _and_ funny.)

“I’m sure you’d know a maroon when you see one, Itchy.” He lifts his left wrist, tapping the clockface there with the hook of his named-for tool of the trade, “It’s been thirty-seven minutes since my call for one-ten. I expected quicker hustling.”

One goes to open his mouth, intending to gripe or lay blame. Not interested in seeing more time wasted when he could be holed away in his room with a record on and the faintest fancy of Crowbar’s sharp jaw, Quarters elects to smooth things over with a: “Nice tie, boss.”

The silence is deafening. Seven looks like he’s taken a shot to the midsection for a second before his eyes narrow down to their typical focused squint. Despite the composure, he reaches up to adjust the dark emerald affair, perfectly straight. They all wait on his reply. It never comes, because he turns smartly on his heel with a pretty flutter of his suit tails, and marches into the garage.

“City won’t plunder itself. Get in the car now and I’ll _think_ about a stop at the speakeasy after.”

None of them act on the stupid (shared) impulse to comment on the flush across the back of his nape. He’s a smart sight, Mister Seven.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoroughly pleased with how this one came out. And, who knows... Maybe you'll get a little extra something in your stocking if you liked this.


End file.
